


Paramour

by Nedrika



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Survivor Guilt, Workplace Relationship, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21900649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nedrika/pseuds/Nedrika
Summary: There were many times during the years that Central had lost all hope that he would ever get the Commander back. He was very wrong.
Relationships: John "Central" Bradford/Commander (XCOM)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YunaBlaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YunaBlaze/gifts).



> The more I sketched this out, the more it turned into a Mass Effect romance option

When they got the intelligence through that there was a chance, however slim, that they would get the Commander back the years of pain were suddenly worth it. He hadn't slept a wink that night, too wound tight to relax and the next few days too important to risk drinking himself into a stupor. 

Even when the screen had told them who was in the pod, it had been difficult to believe. There was nothing of his old superior in the massive spacesuit that flopped bonelessly into his arms, a dead weight that lay passively in the metal bottom of the Skyranger as technicians scuttled about it.

And yet.

The suit is peeling back before his eyes, revealing a familiar nose and jawline among alien weakness; his closed eyes sunk into a sickly ashen skin far too prominently stretched across the bones of his skull and his hair bleached greying white so that even his eyebrows and lashes were picked out. When they flick open and he looks around there's still intelligence, dulled by an experience he can't even imagine and the trauma of leaving it, but it gives him hope that he's still in there. The act of watching Tygan retrieve the implant with a series of medieval looking medical devices is brutal, but seeing him blink and breathe on the other side, alive and free of whatever lingering control the aliens had taken of him drags a smile to his face.

They're back in the game. 

As expected of the Commander, he wakes in half the time he should have and is trying to hobble to the bridge with his first conscious thought. It must be quite the sea change to wake up to a new base, bridge, doctor and Shen, but he seems to take it in his stride. He says nothing of what he remembered, not even when Tygan asks, but promises a debrief once the blur has solidified. 

He's given his first real shock when the Commander introduces himself with a handshake and a very poorly once over after they're off the bridge.

"John Bradford, I'm your Central Intelligence Officer, same as ever," he says, hoping that he's kept his tone light enough to mask how much the unexpected slight stings; he knows from the photograph of the old team in the bar that he's changed, but it seems the years as a fugitive have changed him far beyond the extra twenty. The Commander bristles and retracts, his hand tensing around thin air. "It's been a rough, I guess I've changed a bit," he adds with a smile as he shakes the outstretched hand, and the Commander relaxes again.

"So everyone keeps telling me, it feels like yesterday to me," he says, the previous confidence dulled. "Sorry about that, I've missed a lot." 

Central can't help but notice his fingers are weak and his voice scratchy from misuse, but the aura of approachable authority is still there. 

"You shouldn't worry about it, it was better not to have lived through it," he says before he can stop himself, and he watches the Commander swallow everything he was going to say. He excuses himself before he can let his hang-ups ruin anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

Time proves the Commander is the same, for the most part, and the Avenger solidifies around him.

It's the same cutting intelligence, the same talent for getting people out of sticky situations with the barest minimum of casualties. It's incredible to watch him come alive when the Skyranger touches down in alien territory, mind racing along a labyrinth of potential outcomes, but physically he's wasted from the pod and hobbling about on crutches most of the day. The man he used to be had been in peak physical condition despite his command role; the aliens only had a use for his brain, and so that was the only thing they had any spent any attention on as his muscles starved and skin slackened. He's getting stronger constantly, visiting the other departments more often rather than swapping between reading through twenty years of missed life and roosting on the bridge. Tygan has him on a restricted diet still, and he can't hide when even leaning on the bridge rail is too much and he excuses himself.

It feels wrong, a last degradation of everything dependable from that old life at the base, and he hates that he feels that way when the Commander's retrieval should be nothing but a happy return.

"Would you spot for me?" the Commander asks, leaning casually over one of the glowing consoles, and Central balks. It sounds like a request rather than a command, but there was surely no way that he could refuse. And no way that he would; if the Commander's recovery was in question of course he would volunteer.

Still, it was a change from before, when they'd had so little interaction outside of their official functions, but then the current XCOM was a far more relaxed outfit than the old one. He still had no idea why the Commander had decided to give the freedom for soldiers to... customise their own uniforms but even the boost in morale it had provided didn't stop him from almost having a heart attack every time they reported for deployment. One of the rookies had taken a skull from the Reapers' wall last week to stuff over her helmet and the potential strife that would have resulted if they hadn't put it back in time was keeping him up at night. It wasn't bad to be more casual, and he'd become used enough to a militia existence but it's strange to see it seep into what's nominally XCOM reborn.

He ends up in Tygan's office later that day.

"I'm surprised you're asking me this, Central," he says as he slots a jar of Faceless onto a specimen shelf, enveloped in an air of smugness that he still hasn't learned to trust. It was easier with Vahlen, her enthusiasm more obvious and easier to keep a track of. "You're undoubtedly the most informed of us on training regimens and martial skills, I would have thought my input would be unnecessary."

"You've seen what his body's been through," Central huffs. "I know training new recruits, moulding people into soldiers. I don't have experience of recovery from alien experimentation or long term wastage, and I don't want to get this wrong."

"I can understand that, and I'll get his preliminary regimen to you by tomorrow." 

"Thanks, Tygan, I owe you," he says, itching to be out of the sterile lab and back somewhere he understood, nestled in data streams. 

"Keep me updated with his progress," Tygan calls after him. "I've not done this before either."

It works, and over the next couple of weeks they both watch the muscles come back in on the Commander's body, adjusting the routine minutely to keep up with his progress. Central can feel the muscles too when they spar, his movements quickening and his hits strong enough to leave him hurting. It's enough that he considers getting one of the younger soldiers in to take over for him in their fights, relegating himself to workout buddy, but he's enjoying the easy competition so much that he's not brought it up. He will, eventually, for the Commander's benefit.

With every day he's healthier, moving easier, laughing more as they tussle and he wants to be as close, just a little longer.

The aliens had done something to him, a method they hadn't shared with the rest of humanity, so that while he'd been stuck in that suit he'd withered but not aged; now that he's recovering his skin is coming back with as elastic and smooth as ever, the gleaming white of his hair the only indication that he's theoretically twenty years older. He's kept it long, cut from the mane that had followed him out of the suit but enough that the ponytail curls behind him as he moves; he has a suspicion that he’s leaving it long as a show of solidarity with the troops' customisation. He isn’t sure what to think of it.

The Commander's report on the experience of the pod mentioned time seeming intangible; the years had been passed in an onslaught of simulations or active control or both, he had no way to tell, and that the moments had seemed longer while the time itself passed quickly. Central couldn't understand - he had no frame of reference for it - but Lily was very concerned about it, and the possibility that they had been improving his processing time while increasing his longevity as their supercomputer.

All he knows is that it changed something in their dynamic. Before, the Commander had been the elder one, in command and more experienced while Central was younger and somewhat doe eyed in his admiration of their leader, an expert in logistics over field operations. Now the tide's turned; he's older and rugged to say the least, battle-scarred and traumatised from half a lifetime spent in danger commanding men with an impossible level of responsibility, while the Commander was spared the knowledge of the abuse their species had suffered in the interim.

It's given him a hope that doesn't appear naturally in those that had to live it, and it's infectious. The entire atmosphere of the resistance has changed palpably since he took back over, and Central can feel his own attitude lighten. The old puppy love is bubbling back up in him, dulled through so many years where there was nothing in his life other than the stress of keeping himself and everyone else alive, and his only outlet the bottle.

He wants to talk to him about what it had been like, how much he'd missed him both as their leader and his friend, and how much he had thought of him while they were on the run. The weight of military structure keeps him in line, so instead he drinks.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a knock on his cabin door the week after the Avenger comes down. He's dozing in uniform, not having truly slept since the first warning came through and they were dragged out of the sky, and the sudden disturbance startles him into making a sound more like a yelp than a greeting and he hurries to clear his head enough to answer.

"Come on in," he manages as he pulls himself to his feet. He's going to be lucky if it isn't obvious that he'd been sleeping but it isn't his watch, damn it. The door opens to the Commander, and the self-reproach digs a little deeper - he fights the urge to smooth his clothes down like a new recruit caught out at inspection. 

"Evening, Bradford."

"Commander."

The Commander stands at ease, and Central struggles to wrench himself out of attention. Even in his own room the Commander has an effortless dominion, but he isn't about to be ambushed.

"I hope this is a good time, there's something I wanted to talk to you about," the Commander said, eyes trained on Central rather than looking around the menagerie of survival gear and ring bound folders that are meticulously organised across every inch of space, and he appreciates the discretion. 

"Of course, how can I help?"

The Commander sighs and looks to his feet before responding.

"I think you need to worry less about the ship," he says, and Central isn't sure that he's heard it right.

"That's my job, Commander," he replies in a flash. "I look after the ship and the people in it so that you can focus on your duties."

"It's your job to look after them, not to drive yourself mad worrying about them," he says, his voice flat in a way that sounds careful. Central smarts at the accusation but grinds his teeth to let him get everything he wants to say across. 

"You need to trust people to do their jobs well rather than second guess everything. You've been flying us in routes so safe and winding they are treading on wasting time, and burning yourself out reading through every report and personnel file that is created in the whole ship. It's not sustainable." 

He cringes, knowing that his sleeplessness and over-protectiveness are both getting worse over time to feed back into his paranoia but he had been hoping that their continued safety would vouch for him. 

"You've got to understand that we made it out fine, we didn't lose anyone and we'll be prepared if it happens again."

Central does move then, starting to to protest it ever happening again, but he's cut off.

"We don't know their tech, we can't ever be totally secure. But we're all here to deal with it, and they won't get the better of us."

Central goes rigid again under his careful gaze, his hands still clasped behind his back. 

"I'll try and keep it in mind, and my efforts within moderation."

Silence stretches until finally the Commander breaks it, his voice soft in a way that catches him off-guard.

"Is this about the base?"

"Yes," he grits out, and hates himself for admitting it. "I don't want to blunder everyone into another ambush, especially when I have control over the ship's course. I won't lose everyone again."

"You aren't going to serve them best while strung out from no sleep and trying to replace the whole crew; they're perfectly capable of doing their jobs. Do you not trust them?"

"Of course I do." He knows it's true as he says it, and begins pacing around the room as the nerves get their teeth in him.

"Then show them that you do, and let them help you. XCOM is built from the best and most capable people for the job and they're getting better and stronger every day."

"I must be the odd one out then," he spits, far too loud to address a superior but the shame has woken spite. "The washed up carry-over from the old generation who can't keep us out of another obvious set-up."

"Then you don't trust me," the Commander shouts him down, and he's hooked by the anger in his face. "If there were even the slightest hint that you weren't the best person for the job you would be off it. I'm not so weak that I would grandfather someone in out of convention or personal feelings, and this operation is too important to take half measures. You led these people while I was gone, raised them from nothing to a working fighting force and then you pulled me out of that pod. I'm talking to you now because I know you'll fix it, and continue being the best 2IC I could ask for." 

He sighs abruptly, and some of the anger leaves him. "I don't think you realise how important you are around here. The troops look up to you, and none of them blame you for anything. You couldn't have seen it coming, but you're leaving us vulnerable if you're running yourself ragged up like this."

The Commander looks away, his piece said, and Central struggles for a response. He's never seen that vehemence from him outside of a fight, and to have it directed at himself is staggering.

"Yes, sir," he manages, the habit granting him time. "I... won't let you down again, sir."

The Commander deflates, running his hands through his hair in frustration. 

"You aren't letting me down, you're being human. I know you've been through shit, but we're all on the same team here. If you can't talk to me about it there are others, or the counselor you found for the barracks. It's in everyone's interest that you be at your best - yours, mine and the movement. If you need time we can cover you, but get better, okay?"

"Yes, sir," he repeats as the Commander claps him on the shoulder on his way to the door. It's a while before he can get himself to move from the spot.

In the end he doesn't talk to the doctor and he reports for duty the same as ever, but he does spend an evening in Lily's den talking over ship defences, their time with the war, and schedules a regular appointment with a lane at her testing range and the biggest rifle she's got. 


	4. Chapter 4

He isn't surprised when the Commander comes to check in on him while he's getting ready to go collect Vahlen. 

"You all set?" he asks, settling easily against one of the low drawer units. "I commend you volunteering but I want you to know there's no pressure on you."

Central laughs, the prospect of being out in the field a welcome change of pace from the Avenger. He'd become used to having all the world to roam and being a soldier on the ground rather than an eye in the sky, and as much as he hated it at the time the change had been so stark and so complete that nostalgia was beginning to filter in. More than that there was a comforting immediacy to putting holes in aliens.

"It's only been a couple of months, Sir, I can do this. Besides, I'm only visiting an old workmate, right? And one that's unlikely to come out of her bolt hole without a friendly face about, at that."

The Commander shuffles a little, still not entirely comfortable at the situation. Is he worried for him being in a firefight, or the the team for being saddled with him? A part of his psyche that he isn't at all proud of is hoping its for him, and an even uglier and more secret part is looking forward to being ordered around by him. That was an issue that he is going to have to smother completely or end up dead, and he's hoping it'll go away with the first spike of adrenaline and with gunpowder in the air.

"You've really changed," the Commander says. "It's hard to imagine you down there with the likes of Volk."

"We all learned a lot in our time out there, and the Reapers teach you very quickly to appreciate the rush of survival," he replies. "You need to rub the sweater out of your eyes." 

"I'm trying to," he said, and there is an undercurrent to his voice that catches Central's attention. The Commander's eyes are following his fingers as they pull the buckle tight on his machete sheath, then slipping down to take in the rest of his body studded with armor and laced with ammo caches with undue attention that makes him shift under its intensity.

"You think I don't have it in me?" he asks, his tone jovial and not as strained as he feels.

"God no," the Commander replies, his voice still low and thick. "I've been on the receiving end of you enough times in the gym; I've got now doubts about how powerful you can be." 

His face flushes and he turns around, ostensibly to pull his rifle off of its mount.

"And the skills to use it, I hope." 

It isn't his smoothest, but he isn't even certain that they’re trading lines and he’s very out of practice. It seems to have hit when he hears rustling cloth and a muted cough behind him.

"Best of luck in the field, soldier," the Commander murmurs, and when he turns around he is alone.


	5. Chapter 5

The idea of the Commander going back into the suit makes him simultaneously incandescent and terrified.

It means giving him back to them, and the fact that the others are so willing to go along with it is baffling. He'd spent almost half his life getting the man out of that thing, and they're about to stick him right back in. 

Alcohol inevitably joins the fray. 

He's crawled halfway inside the bottle of some sort of industrial spirit before it exerts its influence and makes the big bad decision of the night; he finds himself knocking on the door of the Commander's quarters, which opens smoothly for him to reveal the Commander sitting at his desk, looking at him quizzically. 

_He's getting his affairs in order_ , the moonshine says, _writing out his last will and testament_. The anger spikes and twists into heartache and he tromps into the middle of the room.

"This is about the Avatar," the Commander says, no hint of question as he rises to meet him with a hand trailing along one of the chairs in the center of the room. He's glad; it's not a conversation that he can have seated.

"Yes."

He hums, his thumb picking at a seam. "I thought that might not be sitting well. My mind's made up, Bradford."

Central reels away, frustration taking pride of place in his maelstrom.

"You're too important to risk, Sir. Not when we still haven't tried everything else, or improved the system enough. Hell, I'll get in the suit myself if that's what it takes."

"The mission is too important to risk, soldier," he snaps, and Central recoils from the use of rank. "I could never ask the men and women under me to be the only ones fighting on the front lines, when I could be a better asset out there with them."

The Commander reconsiders, takes a step closer and puts his hand on Central's shoulder. 

"We both know why it has to be me, and I appreciate your concern. But it's not about that, is it? It's about before."

It was always about it; the crushing defeat that had dominated their entire world for decades.

The image of him being taken constantly plays in his mind as he runs through all the possible ways that this could fuck up beyond belief. They knew so little about the technology involved it was insanity, no matter how much he trusted Lily and Tygan; they only needed to have misread one wave or symbol and the Commander is a vegetable or a hostile agent.

He understands its uncharitable to think they aren't taking it as seriously as he is, but they also hadn't been there to see first hand what a mistake looks like. They'd all come together to fix that mistake, and he'd been given another chance to learn how warm and human their leader had been, and start to forge a connection that he'd been too aware of place to attempt before. And now here they are risking it all over again, and despite knowing in every fibre its the right decision he's too scared and scarred to accept it.

He breaks under the gentle concern in the Commander's face, the pain too much to keep inside himself as the anger gives to sadness. He takes the warm hand from his shoulder into his own, pressing a kiss against the smooth skin just above his knuckles. He feels the sudden tension under his touch and smiles, dropping his arms to his sides as he comes to attention, fixing his focus on the torn but proud flag fluttering in the air conditioning. The Commander's hand barely falls. 

"Sorry, I don't want to impose my problems on you, Commander. It's nothing to do with the mission. I won't question your decision."

The touch of a hand to his cheek startles him out of attention, and the Commander's brow is furrowed as he rubs his thumb along the crease of scar tissue there. 

"I was hoping you'd talk to me before it got to this point. I wish you'd trusted me to know it."

"I trust you with the lives of myself and everyone else on this planet, Sir," he says reflexively. "It's a burden you don't need, frankly, and it wouldn't have changed a thing."

"It could have changed a lot of things," the Commander says, his voice incredibly tender as he pulls his fingertips against the stubble underneath his jaw. Again he's reminded how time has left the Commander behind, and how weathered he is. "It may still change a lot of things, but for now we have a war to win and we can't lose faith this close to getting the world back on its feet, understood?"

He understands, even as everything in him wants to reject it. They've been sending people to their deaths for long enough, and it was unforgivable for him to try and dissuade their leader from taking the same coin flip. It burns, but he'll stand by him.

"Give them hell, Commander," he says, stepping back a pace to salute and shucking the warm hand in the same motion.

"Fucking hell," the Commander says - the first time he's heard him swear - and closes the gap again. "Can you talk to me as a man for once rather than a superior, John?"

He can't, he knows he can't, the chain of command ironed into him like the pleats on his old dress uniform, and so he does the only think he can and removes speech from the equation.

The Commander's skin is warm under his hands as he pulls him into a kiss, awkward from years of ingrained discipline, burning from the scrape of stubble but as strong as he could muster; twenty years of wishing made real through the brute force of threat, testosterone and adrenaline. The Commander kisses back immediately with a hungry intensity, deep and thorough, his hands grasping at the holster's straps and pulling him close. 

It's messy and aggressive as they find themselves stumbling down the step to the fall onto the bed. He thrusts his hips into the Commander's, the erection he feels through their pants stoking his lust alongside the heavy breaths in his ear.

He plants a kiss to the corner of his jaw and he rears back to fumble at the buckles at his sheath. His desperation mixed with the hooch has made him clumsy and he could roar, but there's a gentle pressure pulling his hands away; the Commander is deftly pulling them apart so he can get his shoulders free and peel off the thermal. The Commander is doing the same below him, the familiar muscles flexing as he reaches down and pulls Central's cock free of his fly. 

"Fuck," he breathes, collapsing onto the bed to cage him in with the first long pull. He's breathing too hard and far too hard as strong fingers stroke and play with him, circling his head then gliding to the base. His shoulders buckle at the sensation and he regretfully drags himself out of his hand to strip off his pants. Below him the Commander is doing the same before he flips himself over and drapes himself over the edge of the bed to rummage in one of the drawers built into the frame. 

Central pulls his cock in gentle, rhythmic strokes as he watches the ass in front of him bounce and twitch with the movement; it doesn't feel real, and he's going to have to be careful here or it's all going to be over in seconds.

"Got it!" he hears, smothered by the blankets, and the hand reappears clutching a small bottle of what must be lube, XCOM printed in bold letters along the side. His hand halts at the impossible sight.

"Where the hell did you find that?"

"Got it from one of Tygan's techs on medical reasons," the Commander says, popping the lid with a grin, "Kid was too star-struck to ask many questions about my 'rashes', and..." Before he gets any further into the explanation Central kisses him, prying the tube from his hand so he can lube his own fingers up.

The Commander is more responsive than he could have imagined, opening steadily as he jerks him with his other hand, pressing kisses against the nearest shoulder so he can still get a good view of his cock as it moved in his hand and the passion in his face. It's intoxicating to watch the man who can stand calm and steady under the worst battle prospects lose his composure and become someone else under his hands, muttering curses in all the languages of the unit, but he's barely got a couple of fingers in when he's pulled into a rough kiss, 'get on with it' growled into his ear. He pulls back to question it but is yanked back down.

"Fuck me, John."

It's all he needs, and he barely pauses to slick himself before he's burying himself deep.

He's incredible; warm, and tight and when he inches his way back out ankles lock around his waist and pull him back in. There's a smirk on his Commander's face as he watches Central move, arms back up above his head and chest wantonly arching towards him.

"You can go harder than that."

"I'll bet I can."

He knows how to take orders and he applies himself, hips grinding forward as hard as he can into that heat, skin prickling, trying to make out the gasps and pants that mean he's angling himself right, his hands bracing at the Commander's waist, as fingers dig into his own shoulders hard enough to bruise. The pressure at his back loosens as the Commander's heels root themselves in the blankets. He's pulled down into another kiss that he thrusts himself out of, settling for sucking and biting onto his neck as he nears the crest in a desperate attempt to claim him, at least a little and at least for now. He has one elbow on the bed to grab a handful of silken hair near the scalp while his other hand slips between them to reach the Commander's cock, straining and hot between them. All he can hear is the sound of their bodies crashing together while his name is chanted into the air, voice breaking and coming apart into huffs of air when all he can manage to whisper back is a title. He stammers and comes, the Commander following under him in tremulous waves, his mouth still open to speak.

They lie catching their breaths as Central begins to come back to himself; one hand curling lazily around the curve of his commanding officer's torso while his mind grapples with exactly what level of disciplinary breach this counts as. He's broken out of his worries by the laughter that rumbles through the chest he's lying against, and he props himself up to see what the matter is. The Commander fixes him with an eyebrow, looking more relaxed than he has for a long time, and it hurts to think he'd been beating himself up over the mess between them as well.

"If this is what's waiting for me then I guess I have to come back."

For a brief second he considers mutiny but he's too exhausted to let the comment stick, settling himself back where he was with a tired and hollow laugh. He watches as the Commander slips towards sleep, white eyelashes getting heavier and heavier, but he hardly gets a chance to enjoy the view before there's a ship-wide call for Central Officer Bradford to report to the bridge that comes echoing through the tannoy.

He groans along with every one of his bones as he pulls himself out of bed, fitness training be damned, and can't be bothered to cover himself as he treks to the little concealed shower in the corner of the room.

"How do you know that exists?" he hears from the main room, the voice quickly followed by a shadow in the doorway. "Even I forget about it sometimes."

"I helped plan this ship out back in the day," he says as he shivers under the cold water. "I don't think the squaddies have any idea that they aren't intrepid explorers by holding their poker nights in the access-way between decks but they're not as sharp as all that."

There's laughter back out in the room somewhere as his audience wanders. He uses the only shampoo in there, a bottle filched from an ADVENT store and specially designed for long hair. It's another tiny reminder of his humanity against the avalanche of reminders he's experienced in the last hour, but he still treasures it. 

He's still damp when the tannoy goes out for him again, and half trips over himself in his rush to both put on and pick up his clothes from where they've been scattered all around the room. The Commander takes pity on him and goes to gather what is hopefully a pair of socks - all four look the same to him - and watches with a muted glee as he gets dressed in double time. 

"I guess this is what it feels like when I'm nagging you to get to something, is it?" he asks, unbuckling his holster after spotting he'd put it on upside down.

"There's a level of karma inherent in this, for sure," the Commander says as he makes his way over to the shower, but he misses a step and bends over with a hand slapped to the small of his back.

"Good thing I didn't need this body anyway,but it would have been worth it even if I did," he jokes as he continues his hobble to the en suite, and Central flushes violently, followed by a stunning light-headedness at the thought of fucking the Chief of XCOM out of commission right before the most important mission of their careers.

The Commander drags him into a kiss as he passes; softer now, and there was a surety in it.

"It will be different this time," he says, and Central believes him.

"I'll see you on the other side," he says, thumbing absently at the Commander's bottom lip before he stepped away and left to report for duty.


	6. Chapter 6

He thought that he'd had it rough when he lived on the run, regrouping and building connections with the entire world against him, but there is nothing in his life that compares to the panic that runs through him watching the feed of their final mission. This is what it has all been building to, the reason that he spent all of those years pulling the fragments of XCOM together; all so they can put it all on the line on one deployment. 

There's no coming back from it this time; they'd lost the Spokesman, the world is on fire and now they've put the Commander on the line too.

Lily and Tygan are keyed into his panic, giving him only vague descriptions of the feedback damage to the Commander's body if his Avatar is damaged in the field despite his repeated questions and giving him distance at the bridge where they've congregated to watch the team's progress - one half of the screens on the fire team and the other on readouts from the suit.

Everything's going better than it should, especially given the Commander's restricted overview of the field. They've lost one soldier to a Gatekeeper but the Elders were in sight and they were still going strong, reserves left for the fight and he feels the flicker of hope again...

He doesn't come back with the others. He loses strength, heart hammering with a visceral fright that he hasn't felt since headquarters fell and he watched them take him away the first time. Everything feels inevitable; this had been one long con to recover him and it would be forever this time, except now he's completely removed with not even the ability to try and fight to stop them as he had before. He slumps across the console with his tendons cut and Lily's hand against his shoulder. He can't face her, the enormity of it still hitting him in distant waves when there's a tremendous crash; there's the Avatar standing alone on the dais as the suit's outputs light up to the sound of Tygan whooping victory. 

The celebrations last long into the night and the next morning, several of the Colonels turning green and calling it quits after a truly spectacular round of centurion with a mystery Skirmisher moonshine, and the sounds of the nebulous party echo through every corridor of the Avenger. Central makes his appearances, has been plied with an unhealthy amount of drink and his back aches from all the chapping, but despite all the merriment he's mellowed. 

The Commander finds him, as he always does, sitting by the memorial wall with his one salvaged bottle of malt hanging limp from his hand. The party had started there before it grew too large for the bar, leaving it abandoned save a couple of sleeping figures in the corner as the crowd searched for space and a reprieve from the memories. There are so many faces on the wall, some with extra pictures tacked on and others with little mementos in the form of lucky rabbit feet, coins, rings; miscellany that hurt him more than the smiling faces. He remembers them all, some more than others, but they'd all given their lives to get them here. A lot of them were people he'd directed to their deaths.

He smiles up at the Commander, and hands him a camp cup and the bottle. 

"It's my last one, I swear," he says blearily as he takes the bottle back and gets a tolerant smile in response. They settle back against the bar, drawn to the wall and the scraps of lives pinned there.

"It's not even a fraction of them all," the Commander says quietly, and gestures to the tumbler of whisky sat below the names. "What's the meaning?"

There's a flush of self-awareness, but he's too worn out and happy to pay it much heed.

"Think of it as an angel's share," he murmurs. 

There's a hand in his own, and he grips tight.


End file.
